Cursed, p.31
Cursed, page 31
“Does it matter?” asked the Erlking. He swooped his long fingers toward the children. “They will be free, just as you wished. Velos can claim them right now. It is early enough on the Mourning Moon, they might even still have time to visit their families beyond the veil before they are called to Verloren. Is this not what you’ve wanted all along?”
It was what she’d sworn from the beginning. She would find a way to free these souls, no matter what.
But at this cost? Her own body, her own baby …
Could she live with this choice, knowing that she was responsible for allowing the huntress back into the mortal realm?
Her gaze dropped to the children, taking them in one by one.
Could she live with herself if she didn’t do this?
Nickel gave a shake to his head. “Hans is right. You can’t.”
“I have to,” she whispered, her lip quivering. She fell to her knees and held her arms to them. Her cheeks were wet, but she didn’t know for how long she’d been crying.
“Serilda, no,” said Anna, even as she fell into her embrace. They all did, excepting Hans, who stood a few steps off with a frown chiseled across his features.
“This is wrong,” he said, emotion choking his words. “He’s not supposed to win.”
“He’s not winning,” said Serilda. “This is what I want. I couldn’t protect you before. I have to do this now.”
“Will we ever see you again?” murmured Gerdrut, pressed tight against Serilda’s side.
“Yes,” she said, not knowing if it was a lie. “Of course you will.”
Perchta laughed, the sound like a wild creature. “We are standing at the gates to Verloren. I trust she will be following right behind you.”
Serilda shuddered. Was that it, then? She would give her body to the huntress, and her spirit would just … fade away? Be guided off to Verloren, like her father and the ghosts?
She would never see her child, never look into their beautiful, precious face.
And Gild …
She would never see him again. Never tell him the truth. About their child. About her feelings for him.
Much as it would destroy her, there was no choice here, just as the Erlking had known there wouldn’t be. The Erlking would never offer this again. She had to do it now.
“All right,” she breathed.
“No,” said Velos, the word barely a grunt. But they had struck their own bargains, and now it was time for Serilda to strike hers.
She met the Erlking’s piercing gaze. “Free them, and I will do what you need me to do.”
“Merely a word,” said the Erlking, picking up the arrow with its five remaining threads. “Say that you give your body willingly as a vessel for Perchta’s spirit, and our deal is made.”
She took in the children. Cupped each face. Kissed every brow. She stood, and though Hans’s jaw remained tight, he did not fight against her as she embraced him and pressed her cheek to the top of his head. “You won’t be alone in Verloren,” she whispered, “but I’ll expect you to take care of them anyway.”
He squeezed his eyes shut and sobbed. “We never blamed you,” he said.
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. “I am so proud of you.” She reached for the others. “So proud of each of you. I love you all very much. Be strong now.”
She braced herself and stood tall again, even as her voice trembled. “I accept your offer. You may use my body as a vessel, in exchange for their freedom.”
“Done,” said the Erlking quickly, as if worried she would change her mind. Grinning, he spoke the undoing of the curse again.
I dissolve the binds that tether you …
As the threads began to dissolve, Serilda looked at the children. They stared back at her, uncertain. Afraid. Hopeful. As each fading strand reached the hollow places of their chests, they began to change. Like being washed clean, the blood disappeared from their tunics and dresses. Their ghastly wounds, healed.
“Serilda,” said Nickel, “we’ll miss you.” He snuggled in close, and the others followed, burying their faces into her neck and settling their heads on her shoulders. Already, they felt solid again. Warm and soft and exactly like the children she had so adored.
“Don’t forget us,” whispered Gerdrut, pressing something small and cool into Serilda’s palm.
“Of course not. Never.” She sobbed and held them tight, pressing her lips into fluffy hair and ringlets and braids and—
Nothing.
Her arms closed on empty air. A void. A chill against her skin, where five of her greatest loves had been.
Serilda let out a cry, their sudden absence striking her like a dagger through her heart.
Not trusting the Erlking, she peered instead at Velos. “Are they … safe?”
Though the god wore a dismal expression, they nodded. “Erlkönig has released his claim. They are mine now.”
She wilted at his words. In that sudden, unexpected loss, there was also a swell of unspeakable happiness.
She had done it.
They were free.
Even at this moment, their spirits might be back in Märchenfeld, seeing their families once more. Come dawn, they would pass through the gate into Verloren. It was precisely what Serilda had been wishing for, fighting for.
She swiped away her tears and opened her fist. Gerdrut had given her the small golden ring. The child’s match to the same one Gild had, depicting his family’s royal seal.
With a loud sniff, she pressed it onto her pinkie finger.
“And now,” said Perchta, “I shall claim what is mine.”
Serilda’s head snapped up again. Everything was happening so quickly.
“Wait. My child. Please, let me say goodbye. Let me at least—at least feel…” She stumbled to her feet, hand outstretched, but she was too far from the coffin and the swollen belly that harbored her unborn child.
“I have waited long enough.” Perchta leaned over Serilda’s body, wrapped her fist around the arrow in the wrist, just beneath the fletching, and snapped the shaft in two, before yanking the arrow cleanly from her flesh.
Serilda felt a lurch in her chest, deep in the cavernous space where her heart should have been. Followed by a pain in her wrist—
The scar had opened up. Blood dripped down her hand. She clasped her palm over the wound. In the next moment, a swoon overtook her. A dizziness that made her stumble back, barely catching herself before she collapsed. The chamber tilted to one side.
Then, a release.
She was a snowflake caught in a flurry. Seeking somewhere to land. Somewhere to belong.
Her attention fell on Velos’s lantern. An eternal flame, burning bright. It was a comfort. A promise. Warmth seeped into her, and all the world became that lantern light.
She took a step forward.
“Damn you, Erlkönig,” growled Velos. The god was furious, but not at her.
She took another step, drawn forward, rather than repelled by that anger.
“It was not her time, and that child does not belong to you.”
The Erlking responded, without remorse. “It was never Perchta’s time. You should be pleased to receive such generous compensation. Our business is done. Take your new prisoners and go.”
Velos shook their head. Though their expression was tormented, they nevertheless lifted the lantern toward Serilda. A gesture of welcome.
Serilda drifted closer. Ignoring the blood dripping from her wound, she held out her hand.
“Serilda—no!”
She hesitated. That voice. She knew it. She recognized the way the light inside her chest flickered at the sound.
A figure emerged from the shadows and threw themselves at the floor beside the coffin, snatching something off the ground. His hair copper in the dim light, his eyes wide and frantic when he looked up at her, gripping the broken end of the arrow that had once cursed her.
In his other hand, a golden sword.
“Gild?” she breathed, her hand dropping slightly.
Gild was here. How?
She shook her head, trying to clear it, but she felt so tired, so depleted.
“What is he doing here?” roared the Erlking. “Who let him free?”
Gild hurtled himself off the ground and rushed toward Serilda. He grabbed her hand, ignoring the sticky blood, and wrapped her fingers tight around the arrow’s shaft. The black fletching brushed her palm.
Immediately, her dazed, untethered sensation lifted. She felt more solid, more complete. Not entirely intact, but not empty and searching either. Rooted once more to the earth.
“Ash wood,” said Gild, as if that explained everything. “Don’t let go.”
Laughter rang out, echoing off the stone walls of the chamber. The sound a little feral, a little gleeful. But also a little like Serilda herself, when she was entirely too pleased by something unexpected.
Gild planted himself in front of her, sword at the ready, even though he was shaking. She looked past him to the source of the laughter and saw … herself. Her body. Sitting up inside the coffin. Golden wheels gleaming in her open eyes. Long hair cascading across the ruby cloak, identical to the one on her own shoulders.
“Oh my,” said Perchta, looking down at her new figure and resting her free hand on top of her stomach. “This is a novel sensation.”
“It’s only for a couple months,” said the Erlking, kneeling at her side. “Then you will have a child, as you have always wished.”
Perchta beamed at him, and Serilda felt like the ground was shifting beneath her feet. To see herself, her own eyes, gazing at the Erlking like that. Her own hands reaching, cupping the sides of his face. Her own mouth pressing hungrily against his.
A hand landed on her arm, startling her. “Come on,” whispered Gild. “We have to get out of here.”
He yanked Serilda toward the stairs. She stumbled after him, gripping the arrow shaft, still feeling like she could dissolve into nothing but dust at the first misstep. But the arrow was solid, and Gild’s hand on her elbow was real, even if he, too, was nothing more than a spirit cursed and untethered.
Untethered.
No—Gild still had a body, somewhere, with an arrow through his wrist. He still had the scar. He still had the curse that kept him in this world, half alive.
All she had was a broken arrow. Without that, her spirit would take the first opportunity to slink away to Verloren.
She opened her fist to see the splintered wood, the black fletching, but as soon as she did, dizziness enveloped her again. She stumbled, crashing into Gild. They were nearly to the stairs. He paused to check on her, when his attention caught on something else. His eyes widened.
“If it isn’t the chivalrous prince charming.”
Gripping the arrow shaft, Serilda spun around.
Perchta was on her feet now, striding purposefully through the chamber, straight toward them. Did Serilda imagine how the wheels in her eyes burned molten red?
“Three hundred years, trapped in that place. Because of you.”
Perchta lifted the other half of the broken arrow, holding it like a dagger in her fist. Even though Gild had a sword and Serilda knew her former body was not built for physical strength, she still felt a spike of fear.
Perchta bared her teeth and lunged.
Gild raised the sword.
A shadow jumped in between them, snarling. Serilda screamed and fell back, pressing against the wall. Gild was right beside her, his jaw hanging open, as they stared at the monster in their midst.
A black wolf, as big as the grinding wheel in her father’s mill. The fur on its back bristled; its massive claws scraped against the stone floor.
The Erlking let out a triumphant shout, the sound as chilling to Serilda’s ear as the low, earth-rumbling growl from the enormous beast. The god was protecting them, Serilda realized. Facing off against Perchta, the great huntress.
But if Perchta should be hurt … what would become of Serilda’s child?
“It’s Velos,” murmured Gild, his tone full of awe. “The great wolf who guards the gates to Verloren—”
Serilda shook her head, tears misting her vision. “He can’t hurt her,” she said, clutching Gild’s arm. “My baby…”
He blinked at her, momentarily confused. Then understanding struck him, followed fast by horror. He shifted the sword in his fist, looking back as Velos leaned down, jaws snapping.
“No!” Serilda screamed.
It didn’t matter. Perchta was too quick, dodging out of the creature’s reach and rushing forward to grab hold of its long, shaggy coat. Even with Serilda’s unfamiliar body, even with a child growing inside her, Perchta was as quick as a fox, spry as a cat. She took the arrow shaft into her teeth and pulled herself onto the wolf’s back, both fists clinging to its fur.
Velos howled, trying to shake her off, but Perchta cackled, her eyes lit with inhuman delight. “I have dreamed of this many times, you ancient mutt!”
A low, crooning noise reverberated off the stone walls—the king’s hunting horn. The bellow was followed by a thunder of footsteps. At first Serilda thought they were coming from the castle upstairs, but then, a swarm of figures began to emerge on the steps leading to Verloren, flooding back in through the gates.
Not ghosts. Not lost spirits.
Dark ones.
The same who had been bound and reclaimed by the god of death. The golden chains shimmered on their wrists, but their looks of betrayal had transformed into looks of victory.
“Now, my love!” yelled the Erlking.
Perchta lifted her half of the arrow. The gold tip gleamed in the torchlight. Velos jerked upward, but when she would not be thrown, the wolf began to shift. For barely a moment, Serilda could see the beastly form beginning to grow smaller, the black fur lengthening, turning back into the god’s dark cloak.
But then Perchta let out a war cry and drove the arrow down into the back of the wolf’s neck.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
An unworldly scream erupted from the beast’s throat. A sound that shook Serilda to her core. A cry that made the earth itself tremble. The stone beneath them split—a single jagged cut snaking in from the gates of Verloren, like a bolt of lightning that shot straight across to the castle steps. Stone rattled and groaned as the earth split apart beneath them.
“Now!” yelled the Erlking. “Quickly!”
The dark ones surged forward, tearing the golden chains from their own limbs. They must have planned this. Practiced this. How they would fool the god into believing the chains had claimed them, when the Erlking never intended to uphold his side of the bargain at all.
With breathless precision, the hunters surrounded the great wolf and hefted the golden chains around its massive form. The creature bucked and struggled and snapped, but the dark ones were too numerous, and as soon as the chains were tight around its body, the fight drained away. Velos was left panting, the chains entrapping their body from throat to hind legs, rendering them helpless.
“Finally,” said the Erlking, stepping forward to stare the great beast in the eye. “To conquer Eostrig was a joy, but to have the lord of death? I have waited long to have you at my feet. Master.” He snarled in disgust. “Did you really think I would give up my entire court? That I would sacrifice them to you?” He clicked his tongue. “You might be a god, but I am the Alder King. The dark ones are mine.”
The Erlking lifted a hand to Perchta. She took it, as if she were a bride being helped from her wedding carriage. She slid from the wolf’s back and into the Erlking’s arms.
Around them, the walls groaned. The jagged crevice in the floor widened, yawning open. The gates shuddered. Motes of dust and pieces of rock fell from the trembling ceiling.
The edge of the destruction closest to the gates yawned open with a scream that burrowed into Serilda’s head. She covered her ears. Even the dark ones cringed at the unholy noise, backing away as the ground tore itself apart.
The gates began to fall. Splintering wood and crumbling ash, collapsing down into the open earth. Beyond the gates, the stairway too trembled and began to fall. The bridge to Verloren—
“Come on!” Gild yelled, though Serilda could barely hear him above the chaos. He yanked her away from the destruction, through the archway. The walls shook as they ran upward. The stairs groaned, the cracks spread.
“What’s happening?” Serilda cried.
“They captured Velos,” Gild shouted back. “Maybe the gates were sustained by the god’s magic?”
As they neared the top of the staircase, she noticed the walls were no longer trembling. The earth had stilled. But Serilda worried that it would follow them. That the gap beneath the castle would open so wide, it would swallow all of Gravenstone, taking them with it.
They had to get out.
Serilda was no longer tethered, no longer cursed. But could Gild leave? His body was in Adalheid, but with him imprisoned in the dungeons here, they had not been able to test what would happen if he stepped beyond these walls. Serilda had not dared to leave Gravenstone since their arrival, as she couldn’t have taken the children with her. Besides, they were surrounded on every side by the Aschen Wood. Where would she have gone?
They reached the top of the steps and she spied the light of the Mourning Moon shining through the glass ceiling of the lunar rotunda, casting the walls in silver.
But no sooner had they run out into the rotunda than a swath of heavy cloth was thrown over them, cloaking them in darkness. Serilda screamed and shoved against the fabric, trying to find her way out of it, but it only tightened around her. “Gild!”
“Hold still!” he yelled. He drove the tip of his sword up through the fabric, then slashed downward, slicing a hole through it.
“Wait!” yelled a child’s voice. “It isn’t Erlkönig!”
Working his arm through the gap, Gild tore the fabric wide enough that he and Serilda could stumble free. The fabric—an enormous tapestry—pooled at their feet.
Surrounding them stood a horde of monsters. Nachtkrapp, drudes, hobgoblins. There were tiny sprites and shaggy waltschrats. Six-legged bukavac and long-nosed halgeists and an entire contingent of katzenveit, each wearing a tiny, bright-red cap. There were many monsters Serilda had no names for. Beasts with tusks and antlers, scales and wings, fur and enormous buggy eyes.
